


The Return of Sherlock Holmes

by Excaliburstark



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: #ghost #cute #fluff #sass #gay #love #johnisanidiot, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-27
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2019-03-24 18:13:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13816701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Excaliburstark/pseuds/Excaliburstark
Summary: A one shotIn which John is an idiotRevelations,  realisations and mystery





	The Return of Sherlock Holmes

**Author's Note:**

> I do apologise for the odd spelling mistake. I was very tired when I checked it over. Hope you enjoy!

A tall, shadowed figure was sat in the armchair in his apartment. A dark curly head of hair that reflected the moonlight shining in through the window. 

John gave a start, the figure seemed undisturbed. He silently grabbed an umbrella from the umbrella rack right by the door, and held it up like it was a baseball bat as he approached the stranger.  
"Really, John, an umbrella?" He said sardonically. 

John froze, his heart did not. He could feel it pitter-pattering at the speed of a train against his chest. 

The figure turned in the chair, his dark eyelashes framing his shining blue eyes fluttered as he blinked rapidly. 

It had been a week since Sherlock had jumped off that building. John remembered Sherlock falling so fast yet so slow at the same time - unstoppable and unbelievable. He remembered his face smashing against the cold cement and the bright red that leaked everywhere. 

John looked confused, his light eyebrows pulled together. Then realisation swept over him like a wave. 

John returned the umbrella back to its rightful place and asked "Do you want a cup of tea?" 

Sherlock couldn't help but feel slightly disappointed, John hadn't reacted at all in the way he thought John might've. Giving a great sigh he nodded and followed John to the kitchen. 

John was hunched over the kettle and Sherlock lifted himself up onto the counter and sat their, his long legs dangling. 

"So, how have you been?" Sherlock asked. 

John's tired eyes looked at him. "As if you don't know."

Sherlock stared at John's face, he'd missed him. The little lines around his eyes, the mouth that taunted his dreams, the shadows under his eyes and the familiarity that was John. 

Sherlock felt like he was home. 

John shifted his glance away from Sherlock, his eyes had been skittering across his face, examining him. 

John handed Sherlock his tea. 

"Got any cases I can help out on?" Sherlock asked, trying to recover from that awkward interlude. 

John shook his head, his elbow on the counter his rough hands slotted around the mug. 

"No, no I- They gave me some time off. I go back to work sometime next week." He said. 

Sherlock picked at his blue scarf, tugging at the stray ends. 

John watched Sherlock long slender fingers slowly picking it apart, the same way Sherlock somehow takes everything apart. 

John sighed and tugged on his jumper. 

A small smile crossed John's mouth as he asked "You hungry?" 

Sherlock titled his head "Hmm yeah, I guess I could eat." 

John shook his head, still smiling. 

"What?" Sherlock asked. 

"Nothing, nothing. I just can't believe I've resorted to- Nevermind."  
Sherlock frowned. John was acting a little odd. He expected more, more anger or more... Relief? 

Sherlock shook it off. "Well. Clearly you aren't in a cooking mood, do you want to order something in?" 

 

*

An empty pizza box later and Sherlock felt it was late enough. 

"Well I guess I best be going"

"You're, you're leaving? No don't, please. Stay." John said, startled. His mouth covered in orange, giving him a tomato smile. 

Sherlock smiled slightly and gestured to the corners of his mouth. 

John picked up a napkin and scrubbed away. 

"Don't go." He said, again. 

John winced at how pathetic he sounded. 

Sherlock was surprised. As if he'd go anyway, had John forgotten that Sherlock lives here too. 

In fact John was in Sherlock's room. 

Sherlock wasn't sure whether to feel pleased or insulted that John had moved to his room during his Death. 

Was this a case or practicality or was it like when a sibling moves in after you leave for university?

Or was John just lonely? 

Sherlock nodded. "Sure. I'll sleep on the couch?" He said uncertainly.  
John let out a sigh of relief. "Yeah, I'll grab you some bedding."

Sherlock settled down and watched John disappear behind his bedroom door. 

Sherlock got no sleep, he stayed up late his mind whizzing away behind closed lids. He had missed John, he hoped John had missed him. 

*

Weeks passed by and John seemed stable yet constantly on edge, like a book teetering on the corner of a table. 

Sometimes John got very upset over little things. 

He couldn't seem to find a pen that worked and that caused utter meltdown. 

"Where is one!? I can't find a working pen anywhere!" He'd screech. 

Sherlock would always fumble over to John never sure quiet how to react. John had rarely been like this before.

Sherlock picked up the pen nearest to him, scribbled some random doodle on a nearby page and handed it to John. 

"This one works."

Sherlock had assumed this would calm John down and make him less stressed but it did the complete opposite. 

John threw the pen somewhere behind him and sank to the coffee table to the floor, slithered down like mud on a landslide - Heavy and unstoppable. 

"Just go away sherlock..." John said, his silvery hair falling between his knees. 

Sherlock shuffled, the noise made John snap his head up. 

"No, no wait don't. Don't disappear." He said desperately, his eyes seemed unfocused. 

Sherlock, not sure if this what John wanted or not, crouched down hesitantly next to John and took him in his arm very gently. Worried that a slight tremor would start an earthquake in John and everything would split. 

Sherlock stayed there, John huddled in his arms as they hugged in the carpet. 

Suddenly John crushed himself against Sherlock, grabbing his coat and yanking him forward further. 

John buried his head in between the junction at Sherlock neck. 

Sherlock was sure he felt a hot splash of water on his skin but he said nothing. 

John hated to cry, especially in front of people. 

Sherlock had learnt that soon after John had first moved with him, the nightmares that woke John in shudders of sobs reminded Sherlock reminded him that John was still human, he wasn't some strong indestructible man. 

It weighed on his mind. 

*

Later on, pretending the whole hug-on-the-floor thing had never happened John started to get ready for bed. 

His was brutal when brushing his teeth. 

Cavities didn't dare fuck with him. 

Sherlock always found some amusement in hoe hardcore John brushed his teeth. 

It was specially doing more garment than good. 

Sherlock made a mental note. To tell John that, at some point. 

Sherlock was plumping his pillow before settling down for the night. 

At 3AM Sherlock eyes flew open. 

He heard a scream, John's scream.  
Sherlock quickly grabbed a knife from the kitchen. 

He pushed the door to his... Well John's room. 

The knife dropped from his hand when he realised it was just a nightmare. 

John was twisting and turning, the sweaty covers wrapped around him like a strangulation cocoon. 

"No, no, no no!" John muttered, his voice rising into a crescendo. 

Sherlock hurried over to John's bedside and held his hand. 

He shook him. 

John still mumbled nonsense, fighting whatever was going on in his head. 

That's when he had the thought

Sherlock moved to find his violin, scouring the small space in the dark. 

Grabbing it he quickly began to play a soft melody, the notes floated through the air towards John's room. 

There was silence but Sherlock continued to play until the end of the song. 

He placed his bow down, taking the violin away from his chin. 

"Sherlock" A small voice sounded. 

Sherlock padded his way over to John, nearly stepping on the knife he had dropped earlier. 

He placed it by the bedside as he went to sit near John who looked pale and tired. 

"Thanks." John croaked, his voice rough from the screaming nightmare he'd had. 

"I thought... I thought they stopped, John." Sherlock muttered, his blue eyes tracing John's features. 

"They did, for a while. They came back when you...When..." John closed his eyes. 

"Will you stay with me? I know I sound lame but I, I think you'll help the bad dreams." John asked quietly. 

Sherlock nodded and quietly chambered into the bed, he uncomfortably lay on a small sliver of the bed so as not to be too close to John, no skin touched but John seemed assured. 

John was soon snoring again. 

This time no nightmares woke him.  
*

Sherlock woke up wrapped around John on the small bed, his figure curled around John's small one. 

Spooning, Sherlock realised. He was spooning John. 

He was unsure whether or not to move, John seemed so serene in his slumber, his features were softer his forehead less troubled by the worries of the world. 

John's breathing changed, Sherlock knew he would soon wake up. 

Did he stay in the warm embrace or did he leave into the cold atmosphere of the apartment. 

He sighed, it would probably be easier if he weren't here when John woke up. 

He shifted the duvets so that he could climb out but John would still be covered by them. 

Sherlock went into the kitchen and switched the kettle on. 

"Sherlock? Sherlock, where are you!?" John said, panicked. 

"In here." Sherlock called from the kitchen, his curly hair a dark mess atop his head, his eyes bright and his lean body wilted over the counter, his hands lightly rubbing his left arm where the bed had dug in. 

John apparent a few moments later, either his hair everywhere and his pajama bottoms slung low. 

Sherlock averted his eyes but found it incredibly difficult to peel his gaze away from the tiny amount of stomach that was showing. 

John swiftly tugged the hem of his shirt down. 

Sherlock handed John a cup of tea with milk, how John liked it. 

A know at the door made John spill some. He gasped, the hot liquid seared his skin. 

The cup fell to the floor, smashed. 

John frowned, still holding his hand. 

Sherlock rushed over to John and brought him toward the cold tap, turning it on. 

He grabbed a towel and placed it on the floor before sweeping up pieces of pottery whilst John ran his hand under the tap. 

A folder shoved it's way through the small letter box, the corners wrinkled. 

John dried his hands off and carefully stepped over Sherlock who was collecting the last pieces of the shattered mug. 

He bent down to grab the folder and sighed when he saw who it was from. 

They decide sit was time for him to start working again, it was a case. 

He placed it on the counter and out the kettle on again, this time he hoped not to smash the mug. 

"What is it?" Sherlock asked as the bin slammed shut. 

"A case, I guess I'm back at work." 

Sherlock's eyes lit up. 

John's mouth lifted in a slight smile, he pushed the folder towards sherlock who opened it like a kid ripping open a present. 

"Four serial suicides and now a note! Its Christmas!"

 

*

A week or two had passed, Sherlock found it hard to keep track of time, especially when he was with John. The days just all bled together. 

Sherlock had woken up in John's bed nearly everyday, lingering in the warmth and familiarity of it. 

It had been slow, at first. 

It was just little things - brushing their teeth together, inching closer and closer on the sofa until they were practically sharing the same spot, Sherlock lounging over John as they watched the TV, the occasional hair stroke. 

Sharing thoughts and ideas about the case over a cup of tea, still hanging around in their pajamas with unbrushed hair. 

A knock at the door hit John straight out of his mooning over Sherlock, who had been studying one of the pictures related to the case with a furrowed brow. 

John wandered over to the door, tugging on his striped jumper that had a habit of riding up. 

John was certainly surprised when it was Greg on the other side of the door, with an unhappy looking Philip stood next to him. 

"Greg, Philip... Uh, come in." John said to the solemn looking men stood before him. 

Lestrade strode through the door only to stop short when he noticed the curly haired man sat examining the papers that were spread all over the table and part of the sofa. A cup of tea no longer steaming, clearly gone cold from Sherlock's extensive studying. 

"Sherlock? You're alive?" Greg said. 

Sherlock looked up and grinned, finally someone had acknowledged his liveliness and been surprised he was back. 

John, still stood by the open door suddenly paled, colour fading away replaced by a ghostly glowing white. "You- You can see him too?" John asked quietly, his eyes wide. 

Sherlock looked over at John, who seemed smaller than usual in that moment. He had wondered why John had seen so unreactive to his return. 

"You... aren't dead?"John said, disbelief blinding him. 

Suddenly a massive smile traced it's way over John's mouth lifting all his features and made him seem brighter, like a ray of sun caught in a bottle. 

"But you died." Phillip said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes "Oh, shut up Anderson. You'll lower the IQ of the whole Street." 

John smiled, how could he possibly have thought he could create such an accurate version of Sherlock in his head, whether it was his ghost or a figment of his imagination - Nothing could ever amount to the real man. 

John's grin suddenly dropped. 

"Oh my god, you aren't dead" John said suddenly, embarrassment colouring his tone and his cheeks. 

Flashes of them cuddling in the sofa and sharing a bed flew through his mind. 

"How did you-?" Greg started

"What do you mean-" Philip said, an expression of confusion covering his face. 

So his normal face, Sherlock thought snidely. 

"Where have you been?"

Questioning voices rose and filled the air, all stamping on one another. Getting louder to be heard.  
"Everybody shut up!" Sherlock screeched. 

There was silence. 

Greg spoke first. 

"Well. Um, we're glad your back." He said awkwardly. 

Anderson snorted. "Well, they are."

"There is the case we need to be getting back to, John please update us s- Uh, soon." Greg said, shaking his head before he and Anderson made their exit. 

Anderson left another folder by the door as they left. 

John watched as the door to 221B shut behind them. 

Sherlock was stood there, a most peculiar expression on his delicate features. His blue eyes seemed troubled. 

"I can't believe you thought I was dead." He said. 

Anger rose like a tide in John. 

"What the hell, Sherlock!? Do you even- You can't even conprehend-"

John yanked his own hair. 

Sherlock moved forward, concerned. 

"Do you know what I've had to go through because of you? Why didn't you tell me? What the fuck? Why- Just why? Why didn't you contact me sooner? Did you watch me fall apart over your crumpled body that in guessing wasn't even yours? Do you have any idea?!"

Watching the realisation dawn over Sherlock face made John feel amused and angry and useless all at the same time. 

"And you know what, I-" John continued. 

John's furious rant was broken short when Sherlock stalked across the room to cup John's face with his long graceful violinist fingers. 

Sherlock kiss him furiously on the mouth, their mouths slotting together with urgency that John didn't even realise he had. 

John grabbed at Sherlock arm, crushing the fabric before relaxing into the kiss. 

John kissed him back, hard. 

He had been so worried and sad and anxious and relieved and tangled up in emotions with the fact that Sherlock was gone to see that he missed him for more reasons than being just a friend. 

The kiss lingered before Sherlock drew back. 

"I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry." He whispered, his breath fanning across John's face. 

John just clutched to him, holding him close enough that he would feel safe and like Sherlock could never leave him ever again. 

John sighed. 

"You're such an idiot."

Sherlock grinned 

"Your idiot, now."


End file.
